Page 75 of The Convict

My time in prison is like groundhog day. Every morning I wake up, it’s the same thing, over and over, with a shower thrown in to keep things interesting. I never thought I’d miss showering with another human. When I was in prison in Missouri, I craved solo showers. When I escaped, I only showered alone a few times, and I wasn’t complaining about the company I had after those first few days. Now, I only have a guard at my back, watching me as I soap my dick and wash my ass.

Thankfully, I get books while I’m in here. I wasn’t much of a reader before, but with no one to talk to and nothing else to do, I take every book the guard slides through the slit in the door, even the cheesy romance books. I don’t really like those, but anything to pass the time is fine with me.

I think a lot when I’m not reading. Mostly, I think about … him. I scoff, turning over on my side on the cot. I can think his name. I’ve been through worse than fucking heartbreak. I’ve had broken bones, laid my bike down in the middle of a ride and got terrible fucking road rash, I’ve had my shoulder dislocated, and I’ve had more than a few concussions.

So why does the pain of Finn’s betrayal hurt like it just happened?

It’s stupid to dwell on it, stupid to keep thinking about it when there’s nothing I can do about it. I was fooled by a man I thought loved me as much as I love him.

Loved. I don’t love him anymore.

I roll to my back this time. Yeah, I do. The first time I fell in love and I can’t turn the stupid fucking feelings off. I see why our members keep their old ladies at a distance. This type of heartache hurts more than any physical injury I could have ever experienced.

Who the fuck said having feelings was a good idea? That shit is overrated.

But with love comes the anger I feel that he had the audacity to betray me. Over the past few months, day by day, anger mounts high. I know I’ll never get out, won’t even try again, and Finn better feel fucking lucky about that. I would strangle him with my bare hands if I see him. Every day, I come closer and closer to giving Zeke the order to get rid of him. It’ll probably fuck me up, knowing I’m the reason he’s dead, but fuck that. He fucked me over. It’s the only recourse.

With a huff, I turn over one more time, close my eyes and try to get some sleep. It’s supposed to be a big day tomorrow.

My dreams are filled with blood and violence, a broken Finn lying at my feet, eyes wide, his unseeing eyes staring up at me. My heart and head hurt at the sight, but I keep looking, knowing I need to see this. I need to see what I’ll have wrought if I give Zeke the word to get rid of him in the most painful way possible.

After a fitful night of sleep, I open my eyes, ready to face the day. It’s moving day. Shane came to visit me two weeks ago to let me know my new home in Texas is ready for me.

Shane told me I had to be moved at night and at an unknown time because they didn’t want another escape attempt. They won’t get that out of me. I don’t have it in me to try for my freedom anymore. I never thought I’d get to this point, but I’ve given up on freedom. All because of fucking Finn.

I stuff my arms in the sleeves of my shirt and stand up, ruffling my hair and knotting it on purpose. Fuck him and his humming and brushing my hair. Since nothing is happening—I’m probably up before everyone else since I had that crazy dream—I pace my cell, waiting for the guard to come get me for my shower and slide my food through the door.

The day continues as it would any other day, but the anticipation of going to my new home is looming over my head. I’ve heard all about how death row is different from being on the blocks in gen pop. The days will probably pass much like these. I’ll have to tell Zeke to send me plenty of books in a care package—action and adventure, maybe some thrillers. None of that feelings and romance shit.

Since I have nothing to do but wait until I’m moved, I lie down for a nap. I’ll be shackled to the van by my wrists and ankles, not able to get comfortable enough to sleep for over ten hours, so I may as well try to slip some in now.

I’m plagued by another nightmare, but of a different sort. I’m in bed with Finn, just waking in our private cabin. His fingers trail over my chest, tickling me, after waking me up for a new day. I feel his soft lips on my back, the heat of his kiss tracing my tattoos going straight to my dick. When his hands trail down to my cock, he grasps me firmly and I push into his hand, fucking the circle of his fist as he traces the patterns of my tattoos with his tongue.

My heart rate speeds up as he continues to kiss and touch me. I know something about this isn’t right, like my dream self is saying that it can’t last, even as I thrust forward to chase my release.

Banging interrupts my dream right before I climax and I jolt awake, my cock hard as a rock. I hold myself at the base, staving off the pending orgasm so I’m not riding around with wet pants for the next ten hours.

“Let’s go, James. I need your hands,” the guard says.

Clearing that dream and pissed that one of my favorite memories of Finn and I cropped up like that, I stand and slide my feet in the shitty slippers.

Since I have to be cuffed to the floor of the van, I’ll have my hands in front of me instead of pulled behind my back. It’ll make the drive moderately more comfortable.

After I’m cuffed and escorted out of my cell, I’m stopped at the end of the hall where shackles are affixed around my ankles. From there, I’m led to what I assume is the back of the prison and hustled into a van as fast as my shackled feet can carry me.

Two other guards come out to get me settled, working quickly and efficiently. My ankle shackles are cuffed to the floor and my wrists are cuffed to an extra-long chain that leads from the floor of the van. Each guard checks to make sure I’m battened down tight, not wanting to take any chances on a second escape.

One guard slides into the driver’s seat and the guard that’s been checking on me in my cell slides into the passenger seat. The driver looks at the passenger and says, “Get some sleep. You’ll be solo for the last half of the drive.”

I’m not sure what that means, but I don’t ask. Ain’t really my business. I just settle in for a long ride.

About an hour into the drive, the driver turns on the radio and “Easy” by the fucking Commodores is playing. I grit my teeth, my molars screaming in protest at my mistreatment of them. Finn told me his father’s favorite band was the Commodores and he hummed this song a few times while brushing my hair.

Unable to help myself, I blurt out, “Can you turn that shit off?”

The driver looks in the rearview, an eyebrow raised. “I like this song. I’ll change it when the song goes off.”

Well, that defeats the fucking purpose. Like a child, I want to stick my fingers in my ears so I don’t hear it, but I don’t for two reasons. One, I’m a thirty-eight-year-old man and two, my cuffed hands won’t reach my ears.

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